


Your Voice Still Sounds Like Home

by strangeallure



Series: Wait to Watch Us Fall [2]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, F/M, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Romantic Angst, Secret Messages, Separations, Star-crossed, What-If, canon-divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 03:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18086258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeallure/pseuds/strangeallure
Summary: Michael receives secret messages from Ash after he has left for Qo'noS.Takes place afterWait to Watch Us Fall, but can be read independently.





	Your Voice Still Sounds Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Frangipani ~~bullied~~ encouraged me to write fic bridging the time from _Wait to Watch Us Fall_ to the Ash/Michael reunion story that will be next in this series. I'm glad she did.

“Michael.” It’s him. Ash. It’s his voice.

After such a long time, weeks that have turned into months.

Her muscles lock and her heart starts pounding, blood rushing inside her chest, radiating noise into her temples, into her eardrums. Something like wetness prickles at her neck, her hairline, inside the tightness of her clenched fists.

Michael stops the recording. She can’t deal with this.

It’s too soon, or maybe it’s too late.

She was doing so well.

_Liar._

She was doing better, at least. Without him.

In the quiet of her quarters, she can hear her own breathing. Too loud even as it slows down.

She squares her shoulders and marches out of the room, telling herself that she should get a cup of tea from the mess hall, stay hydrated. She forgets about that sometimes.

What she doesn’t do is delete the file.

\--

Again and again, her thoughts come back to the recording sitting in her personal files, waiting to be opened, to be heard.

“Michael.” She keeps hearing her name in his voice when she’s alone. The echo of a memory, amplified by the fact that she’d only have to press a button to listen to the real thing.

She hadn’t allowed for the possibility of hearing from him again.

They have an armistice, yes, an uneasy truce that seems to require endless negotiations, but there is hardly any information from inside the Klingon Empire. Maybe that’s a good thing. A sign that the twenty-four houses, however grudgingly, are uniting behind L’Rell, closing ranks instead of spreading rumors. Michael’s always hated politics.

Now all of a sudden, there’s this message, sent right from the heart of their former enemy, spoken in the very voice that’s been haunting her.

It hits her. This might not be about her at all.

She feels the blood drain from her face, making her skin prickle.

_What if it’s a warning?_

The message came in on an auxiliary frequency – outdated, but well secured –, undetectable unless someone specifically knows to look for it.

Michael’s body runs hot and cold at the same time. Her muscles twitch.

She has to listen to it right now.

She’s already wasted too much time.

\--

“Michael.” Even when she knows to expect it, Ash’s voice gets to her, anxiousness rising up from deep within.

There’s a pause, like he didn’t think through what he would say, like he has to make up something on the spot. _If this were a warning, wouldn't he try to make it quick instead of spinning his wheels?_

“I have no idea if you’ll get this message, but I just- I had to try.” He sounds hesitant, but hopeful, too, and the softness in his voice calms down her breathing, decelerates her pulse. 

There’s a nervous chuckle and she feels her own lips curve in response. “In case you’re wondering about the origin of this signal: I jerry-rigged some Orion tech to piggyback on the trading outpost’s comm system. With audio-only, the added traffic shouldn’t raise any flags.”

 _Smart_ , she can’t help thinking. And he’s right, too. She had been wondering about the message’s obscure provenance before she had opened it, before the shock of hearing his voice had sent her mind reeling.

“It’s not very elegant. I’m sure you would have come up with something much more sophisticated, but I hope it works.”

Self-deprecation, she knows that from him, from before. And that faith in her, in her abilities. The genuine appreciation when she had helped him recalibrate pulse scope rifles, the gratitude in his eyes when he had thanked her for saving him, for not giving up on him on the Ship of the Dead.

His voice goes quieter, like he’s muttering to himself. “I really hope this works.”

The way he talks is meandering, lacking the focus of an urgent warning. Michael’s fairly certain this is a private message. There probably won’t be any critical information for her to relay to Starfleet officials. She should pause the transmission right now, maybe delete it. It’s not worth it, scratching at wounds that have barely healed.

She doesn’t move.

“Being surrounded by Klingons is not as much fun as it sounds.” He laughs, but there’s no joy in it. “I have some official communication with Starfleet every now and then, but that’s all-classified, all-business all the time. I just want to feel like I’m talking to a real person, you know. Another human.”

There’s a sting of disappointment she doesn’t know what to do with.

His voice halts, then comes back rushed. “No, that’s not true. I want to talk to _you_ , Michael. I want to feel that we’re still connected somehow. I want to believe that you’re still thinking of me. Because I think about you. A lot.”

 _I do, too._ The fierceness of her own thought surprises her.

“I just wish I could come up with a way to receive a signal here, but all channels inside the compound are monitored. I’m pre-recording this message. I hope I’ll get a chance to visit the trading outpost soon, so I can send it off from there.”

Leaving no evidence, no way to trace the transmission back to him. Another smart move. Befitting a spy.

“Anyway, I have to go. I-“ She leans forward into his pause without meaning to, eager for what he wants to say. “I hope you sleep better.” She hears him swallow. “I miss you.”

The recording cuts off.

\--

Michael doesn’t listen to it again, but she wants to.

During the day, she pushes the thought away, makes herself concentrate on work or meditation or the occasional social gathering Tilly drags her to.

At night, however, things are different.

At night, when Tilly’s asleep or on shift, the thoughts take control and Michael plays his message over and over in her head. It’s like her mind made an exact copy, transcribing every word, every pause, every sound. Like his words are precious; easy to lose and not to be squandered.

Even before, she’d been thinking about him. Imagining him there in the late-night dark of her quarters, phantom touches and voiceless whispers that unsettled and excited her in turn.

Hearing the real thing – even as a recording, even from halfway across the quadrant – is different. It seems more real, more immediate, although he might have spoken those words weeks ago.

She’s missed him before, had missed him even as she held him in her arms, as the weight of his presence and his pain almost suffocated her. Had missed him as she desperately tried to keep the line from blurring between human and Klingon, assailant and confidant.

And then, once he had fully blurred that line for her sake, had accepted the Klingon inside so he could leave her, create space for her to heal, she had missed him even more. Had missed him even as her heart pounded with fear when she thought of him, as she forbid herself to think of him, as she struggled to focus on her own pain and on getting better. Had missed him as she gradually let thoughts of him back in, trying to process what had happened between them.

Such a singular thing. A situation without analog, without referent.

And now his voice. So familiar, so human, affecting her in a place she had kept hidden even from herself.

 _I hope you sleep better_ , he had said. _Without me_ , he hadn’t said.

And then, gently: _I miss you_. So much longing in three simple words.

Under the covers, Michael moves her arm, positions it across her chest like she needs to hold herself together. Her fingers move softly, stroking her own upper arm, a soothing motion.

 _I miss you, too_ , she doesn’t say.

\--

“It took me weeks to get a chance and send off my last message. I really hope you got it,” there’s frustration in his voice, and it makes Michael want to reach out and touch him across space and time.

It’s been so long since she received the first transmission, she almost stopped believing there would be a second one. After a few weeks of silence, she had started to worry, her mind supplying reason after reason for why he hadn’t contacted her again.

Maybe he had finally started feeling at home on Qo’noS. Maybe his tech had broken down. Maybe he had been caught sending the first message. Maybe he was hurt.

But then she had found a mention of him in an official dossier on current negotiations between the Federation and the Klingon Empire. Most of the information was classified, of course, but the government made sure to disseminate occasional updates, no doubt to keep speculations about a diplomatic impasse at bay.

Keeping up with the situation as it unfolded was rational, Michael told herself. It needn’t have anything to do with him. Every Federation citizen had a vested interest in sustained political relations with the Klingons.

And then, earlier today, a private alert had popped up on her work station. Outdated high-security channel, audio-only, routed through the Orion homeworld. She had been flooded with a sense of relief so deep it seemed to override the anxiety she had felt when she had opened the first message.

_He’s still there._

She’d wanted to excuse herself and run to her quarters, eager to hear his voice, to hear him say that he thought of her, that he missed her, but she didn’t.

Instead, she’d completed her shift, then met up with Tilly and Owosekun for dinner as planned. When Rhys had invited them to try out a new multi-dimensional card game, however, she had feigned fatigue while encouraging Tilly to participate.

And now she’s here, sitting on her bed, lips parted and spine rigid, her hands tangled in her lap and the volume set to low. Because his voice is her secret, his words just for her.

“I think about you a lot,” he says and it's filled with warmth and maybe a lot more than that. “I must have composed a hundred messages in my mind while waiting for a chance to record this one, but now I don’t really know what to say.” His self-effacing tone is achingly familiar, and Michael feels her body bend towards his voice. “Strange, right?”

“You know what else is strange? The food around here.” He laughs, probably at his own terrible segue. “It’s a lot more likely to be alive than what I’m used to.” Michael remembers reading about _gagh_ , a dish of live serpent worms, and shudders. “Every other meal or drink seems to be a test of courage, a way to show your mettle.” He sounds drained, suddenly, tired.

“I miss old-fashioned burgers with fries.” It’s such a small, everyday thing to say, but it makes her smile, makes her shoulders relax. “I even miss the green smoothies I used to order to feel better about the lack of nutritional value in those burgers.”

An image rises inside her, almost too clear for a memory, of him eating a burger with a big helping of fries, sucking in a green smoothie through a straw. Of him extending his hand without hesitation and shaking hers, grip firm and warm. _I tend to assess people in the here and now. You're a functioning crew member of a Federation starship. Right here. Right now._ And then she sees herself falling: her mind being pulled into Sarek’s, her body hitting the floor.

The first time they met. The first time since she’d defied Philippa’s orders that she had felt seen as a person first, not as a mutineer.

His voice remains conversational. “Anyway, I learned something today that might be of interest to a xeno-anthropologist like yourself.” He pauses, but this time, it’s for effect. “Apparently, Klingons love poetry.” She lets out a snort at the utter absurdity of his statement.

He seems to have anticipated her reaction. “Don’t laugh. I’m serious.” His tone isn’t serious at all. “Poets are revered around here. They have statues and everything.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Men quote love poems when they want to woo a mate. Women throw things.”

Michael identifies the tremble of a suppressed laugh. “What’s wrong with a cuddle and some good conversation?”

 _Nothing_ , she thinks. _Sounds good to me_.

His next words come out quiet, tinged with a smile she imagines to be soft, private. “I really miss talking with you.”

_Me, too._

“I also miss being silent with you.” He takes a breath so deep she can hear it. “My aunt called it _companionable silence_ , when you feel so close to someone, you don’t have to fill the space between you with words.”

She can’t quite name the emotion in his voice when he adds, “I’m sorry I didn’t notice… didn’t want to notice”, he corrects himself, “how your silence had changed.”

There’s pressure building behind her eyes and she starts inspecting her own fingers one by one, slowly sliding the pad of her thumb against the edge of her nails, not to hurt, but to center herself.

“I was so desperate to go back to the way things were.” She imagines the tilt of his head, the way his eyes shine when he’s earnest. “I should have noticed what was happening.”

“I never meant to hurt you.” She knows it’s true, feels like she has always known. “But I did.” That’s also true.

There’s a rustling sound in the background of the recording, and his next words come out faster. “I’ve been away too long. I don’t want to arouse suspicion.” She wonders where he is, what hiding place he deemed private enough to record this message.

“Michael, I-“ He stalls for a moment, then says, “I hope you are well.”

She keeps listening as the silence stretches, but there are no more words for her to hear.

Before she goes to bed, Michael replays the transmission two more times.

\--

It turns into something of a ritual, listening to his voice, to his messages, once a day.

She wants to do it more, wants to listen to him over and over and over again sometimes, but she restrains herself.

When she and Tilly are on opposite shifts, Michael puts off playing the files until she has turned off the lights and is about to drift off, making his words reach her through that gauzy haze just before sleep. That place where dreams and reality intersect, where she can almost believe that he’s in the room with her, that she could touch him. Where she can’t scrutinize her own desire to feel close to him or remind herself that he _chose_ to leave with L’Rell, that a part of him is and always will be Klingon, that she never knew the real Ash Tyler at all.

Some nights, when Michael times it just right, all of her doubts, all of the past hurt falls away and his voice becomes a soft blanket of sound she nestles into as she floats away.

\--

After several weeks, there’s still no new message, and anxiety keeps rising inside her.

She combs through every bit of news out of the Klingon Empire, but there’s no mention of him.

Michael knows he can take care of himself, knows that he’s a valuable asset for both sides: someone who understands the Klingon as well as the human way of thinking, who can gauge differences and mediate between both parties. Yet his hybrid nature must also make him a target, both for physical attacks and of prejudice and suspicion.

She worries about his body, this mistreated, rearranged thing. A warrior’s frame reduced to the size of a much weaker human. Klingons fight, Klingons attack. For them, there’s no difference between physical and mental might. It’s a fundamental principle of their culture, has been for hundreds of years.

Sometimes, pictures spring up in her mind of him on a cold stone floor, beaten and bloody with no-one to tend to him. _No_ , she reminds herself, _he’s strong and he’s fierce_. She’s witnessed both qualities in the best and the worst way.

He would have killed her with his bare hands, but he also defied the Klingon’s deep neural programming, refusing to give up his humanity, resisting the call that should have made him an activated Klingon spy. The medical logs show that after Voq had taken over, Ash Tyler continued to fight, clawing out his own chest, hurting himself to a point where even L’Rell couldn’t bear seeing him suffer any longer. 

 _He’s fine_ , Michael tells herself. _He has to be._

\--

“Hey Michael.”

Ash tries to sound casual, but he’s no good at it.

“Sorry for the long silence. Again. I wish I could have recorded this message sooner.” The frustration in his voice bubbles over. “Damn, I wish I could talk to you, really talk to you, or could at least receive messages from you, too, but the truth is that this will be my last transmission.”

Her stomach drops and everything else in her body seems to grow slack. She swallows and it tastes of bile.

After a pause, his voice comes back calmer, more matter-of-fact. “This place is full of divided loyalties, full of spies.” The resignation in his tone seems to outweigh the resentment as he continues. “There’s always someone lurking, someone listening. If they find out that I’m sending private messages – no matter how innocuous – to a Starfleet officer, they will use it to weaken L’Rell’s position.”

She flinches at his mention of L’Rell. Michael knows she’s the reason the war has ended and the closest thing the Federation has to an ally inside the Klingon Empire, but Michael will never forgive L’Rell for what she did to Ash Tyler.

The sound of an unbidden memory drowns out the next words of the recording.

 _If none of that had happened, I wouldn't be here. On this ship. With you. And that almost makes it ... worth it._ He’d looked so lost, his voice close to breaking when he’d asked, _Is that weird?_

And she had been flooded with this need to ease his pain, this undeniable impulse to put her hand around his neck and pull him close. His trust and vulnerability allowing her to open up to her own emotions, open up to him.

 _No._ Her eyes had watered, but it hadn’t felt like failure, it had felt like connecting. _I'm glad you're here, too._

Michael clears her mind with a shake of her head and rewinds his message.

“-weaken L’Rell’s position. I can’t risk that. She’s the only one who’s truly invested in Klingon unity, who can maintain the peace, both inside the Empire and with the Federation.”

“So yeah.” There’s an undefinable quality in his voice, and Michael wishes she could see his face to help her parse it. “I hope you get this. I hope you listen to it and that you don’t hate me.”

 _I could never hate you_ something inside her screams, willing the words to transcend the space between them.

“You’re amazing, Michael. Kind and strong and full of light.” A sweetness, an almost palpable tenderness colors his words. “Never forget that.”

If she could only answer him. If she could ask him to come back, tell him that she needs him to help her remember, needs him to remind her. That he’s all those things to her, too, and more.

“Be happy. I-“ he stops himself like he did in the previous recordings, the unsaid words hanging heavy in the air. “Just be happy.”

In the darkness of her quarters, Michael sits there, heavy and numb.

She keeps getting better, she knows. She’s made friends on Discovery in a way she hadn’t thought possible. She’s come into her own, shedding some long-held beliefs about herself. And he had played a large part in that. She still has Tilly, has Saru, and now she has Stamets and Linus and Owosekun and Detmer. People trust her, believe in her, _like_ her, while he is alone among Klingons, so far away from humanity. So far away from her.

Maybe it’s better this way, she tells herself. If he lets go of their connection, it will be easier for him to fully integrate into Klingon culture, find a permanent place there.

A selfish part of her doesn’t want him to, wants him to leave Qo’noS, come back and stay with her. Wants to forget about Klingons and humans and their past. Just wants to talk and be held, build a new future together.

Eventually, Michael lies down and curls herself into a ball, pulling the sheets all the way up over her head, trapping the warm humidity of her own breaths under the covers.

She’s strong, he’s right about that. They both are.

She will get through this. She will get better. She will move on.

Tomorrow.

But tonight, Michael allows herself to grieve, to mourn what could have been.

**Author's Note:**

> This was challenging but also rewarding to write. I really hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Like all my stories, this is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
> 
>  **Feedback** : short comments, long comments, questions, constructive criticism, "<3" as extra kudos, reader-reader interaction
> 
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)  
>   
>  **Author Responses** : This author replies to comments.
> 
> You can also hit me up on tumblr: [drstrangewillseeyounow](http://drstrangewillseeyounow.tumblr.com/)


End file.
